


It Takes Time

by wilddragonflying



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, But Not Much, Fingering, Guilt, Incest, M/M, PWP, Sex, Sibling Incest, Well - Freeform, Wincest - Freeform, post s8 finale, the last chapter is basically all smut, there's a little bit of a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:58:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been in love with Dean since he was seventeen, and he's done a pretty damn good job of hiding it. Now, though, the trials are done, the angels have all fallen, and he's closer than ever to just telling Dean what's going on with him, what's been going on for years.</p><p>Dean's always loved Sam. He's just not sure when that love crossed over into being the "forever" love. He'd do anything to protect Sam, to keep him safe and happy. Then he makes one stupid mistake, pushes them both too far. Sam's not quite as upset with this as Dean is, and now he just needs to get Dean to see it and understand why.</p><p>But like everything else, it all takes time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell that the hiatus is already getting to me? I started working on this on May 18, two days after the season finale. Contains spoilers up to the Season 8 finale, so if you don't want spoilers if you have somehow managed to avoid the complete shitstorm that went down after the finale, then don't read.

It took a while for Dean to catch on that something was different with Sam.

Admittedly, Sam never completed the trials, and the angels were all expelled from Heaven and Cas is once again MIA, so of course things would be different with Sam. But once they get back to the bunker, Sam goes straight to bed, which Dean doesn’t blame him for.

But over the next few weeks, things just start adding up. Sam doesn’t eat much—not even as much as the little that he’d eat whenever Dean could convince him to eat during the trials—he’s quieter than normal, he doesn’t sit and read some of the thousands of books in the Men of Letters’s library, he just doesn’t… Sam.

It’s starting to worry Dean. He nearly lost Sam because Sam thought that Dean didn’t love him anymore, that Dean could never fully trust him again; he doesn’t want to lose Sam now because he didn’t ask what was wrong.

He finally does during one of Sam’s periods where he sits at the big table in the library and has a book in his hands, but Dean can tell that he’s not reading it because his eyes aren’t moving, and he hasn’t turned a page in over ten minutes.

“Sam?” he asks cautiously, dropping down into a chair near Sam, but not close enough to make Sam uncomfortable.

Sam jolts like Dean’s shocked him with a cattle prod. “Yeah?” he asks, his own voice mirroring—and maybe intensifying, and Dean tries to not let it get to him—Dean’s own caution.

“I was just… You are okay, right? Not… Not regretting stopping the trials?” It’s like dragging razors through his throat, asking that. It’s been eating at him since he realized that Sam hasn’t been acting even remotely like his normal, pre-trials self. Not that Dean expected him to go back to the way he was before—not with the shit that Sam went through. But it’s been eating at him all the same.

_“Look at him. Look at him! Look how close we are! Other people will die if I don’t finish this!”_

_“Think about it. Think about what we know. Huh? Pulling souls from Hell. Curing demons—Hell, ganking a hellhound. We have enough knowledge on our side to turn the tide._

_“I can’t do it without you.”_

_“You can barely do it with me! I mean, you think I screw up everything I try. You think I ‘need a chaperone,’ remember?”_

_“C’mon, man, that’s not what I meant—“_

_“No, that’s exactly what you meant. You wanna know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was?_

_“It was how many times I let you down. I can’t do that again.”_

_“Sam—“_

_“What happens when you’ve decided I can’t be trusted, again? I mean, who are you going to turn to next time, instead of me? Another angel, another… another vampire? Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch your brother just—“_

_“Hold on, hold on! You seriously think that? Because none of that—none of it!—is true. Listen man, I know we’ve had our disagreements. Hell I know I’ve said some junk that’s set you back on your heels. But Sammy… C’mon. I killed Benny, just to save you. I’m willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed Mom walk, because of you—don’t you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you. It has never been like that, ever. I need you to see that. I’m begging you.”_

Sam’s voice yanks him from the memories of the church. “No,” he says, but his voice is so quiet that Dean can’t tell whether or not he’s lying, and it pulls at something in him, frantically, setting off warning bells. _Sammy isn’t right, Sammy’s not right, something’s wrong with Sammy!_ it screams at Dean, and he tries to keep the worry and the suspicion from his face. Sam chooses that moment to glance up, and Dean can tell from the way that his little brother’s face tightens that Sam’s seen it anyway, seen the suspicion.

Dean curses under his breath. “Sam, you’re not acting like yourself. I’m not expecting you to be completely perfect, but man, you’ve got to tell me when something’s not right! I’m not blind, man. I can tell something’s bothering you. I just… I just don’t know what, and it’s worrying me.”

Sam laughs, but it’s humorless, twisted. “Can’t leave it alone, can’t… can’t _trust_ me to know when I need help?” he asks, sneering as he looks at Dean. If his words didn’t hit so hard, Dean might have seen the anguish behind Sam’s eyes.

“No, Sammy, I trust you—“ But he didn’t, did he? Not with this, at least. He swallowed and looked to the side, barely registering Sam’s soft snort.

“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam says flatly, and Dean has to swallow back the sudden tears. All the shit they’ve gone through, and Dean finally thinks they’ve fixed it, and all it takes is Dean worrying a little about Sam and Sam thinks he doesn’t trust him again?

“Fine,” he whispers, his voice thick as he shoves away from the table, all but fleeing the library and heading for the weapons room, wanting, _needing_ to lose himself in the feel of beating the stuffing out of something like he can’t beat out of himself.

***

Sam glances up again as Dean leaves, and he thinks that maybe he sees a hint of wetness, some shine that wasn’t there before, in Dean’s eyes as he turns and basically flees the room. Sam has to swallow down the lump in his throat in the shape of Dean’s name that wants to force itself out. He still wasn’t sure that Dean would trust him, and it seems like he doesn’t. Sam can take care of himself, regardless of how weak the trials have left him. He’s just taking a while to recover; he was one single bloody handprint away from completing the trials, finally making Dean proud of him.

Sam simultaneously hates and loves Dean for stopping him. He hates it because they had the chance to slam the gates of Hell shut forever, and to hell with it—literally—if he died. What did he have to live for, anyway? Dean leaving him? Dean still suspecting him?

Sometimes Sam wishes that they could travel back to when it was simply them, just hunting down monsters and killing them. Hunting things, saving people, the family business. Then he realizes that they would probably still end up right back here no matter what they did or didn’t do differently.

On the other hand, he loves Dean for it, because he can’t imagine going back to Hell, to the Cage. Doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to contemplate the possibility of ending up back there with Lucifer and Michael and Adam. He doesn’t want to think about being away from Dean, either. They’ve tried the whole separation thing multiple times each—by choice and not—and it’s never worked out. They’ve always ended up back together.

Of course, it’s never been easy for Sam. When he’s away from Dean, he misses him so much it aches, feels like half of himself is missing. When he’s with Dean, he still aches, but for an entirely different reason. He aches because he knows that Dean will never look at him the way that he tries not to look at Dean, he knows that Dean doesn’t trust him, and never would again if he knew the secret Sam had been keeping since Stanford, since Dean had first shown back up in his life, dragging him on that hunt, going after the Woman in White.

Sam had known—subconsciously, he supposed—that he was in love with Dean by the time he seventeen. It just hadn’t hit him quite so hard after not seeing Dean for so long, and then suddenly Dean was there, and they were wrestling, then hunting, and it was too much, too fast, and Sam was back in head over heels, drowning in Dean.

He dropped the book in his hands, bowing his head and pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, desperately trying to hold back the tears. He’d been so on edge since the closing of Heaven, when he gave up the trials, that it felt like the least little thing could set him off, could make him suddenly spout out every last embarrassing detail.

His phone ringing almost made him jump out of his skin, and he frowned when he didn’t recognize the number. He picked it up and answered with, “Hello?”

“Sam.” Cas’s voice was a surprise; why was he calling Sam, not Dean? Dean was the one Cas shared a “profound bond” with. “Dean is not answering his phone, and I need help.”

“Sure, what kind of help?” Dean not answering his phone? He must be more upset than Sam had thought. He felt a twinge of guilt, but shoved it away. He could handle himself; Dean needed to trust him to do that much, at least.

“I am… unable to fly. I need someone to pick me up.”

“What do you mean you can’t fly? Cas, what happened?” Sam clutched the phone a bit tighter. Did this have something to do with all of the falling stars—were they even falling stars, and not falling angels?

“I would rather explain it only once, Sam,” Cas said. He rattled off an address that was a few hours’ drive away, and then hung up. Sam turned his own phone off, and then sat quietly for a moment before pushing to his feet.

“Dean?” he called, moving down the hallway to where he could hear the sound of fists hitting something. “Dean, Cas just—What are you doing?”

Dean whirled, and Sam had to swallow, remind himself that Dean was his _brother_ , for Chrissake, he didn’t feel the same way Sam did, because Dean was standing there without a shirt on, sweat running in rivulets down his chest, neck, and back, and making his hair pointier than normal, and Sam really, _really_ wanted to step forward, bury his hands in Dean’s hair, and lick and nibble his way up Dean’s neck to his ear, then down his jaw and—

He became aware of Dean speaking, and managed to tune in in time to catch, “—practicing. What’s this about Cas?”

“Oh, um—“ Good question. What about Cas? Oh, right. Flightless. “He can’t fly, needs someone to go pick him up. You wanna go? He’s only a few hours away.”

***

Cas, flightless? That couldn’t be good. And the way Sam had been looking at him… Dean nodded absently, most of his mind preoccupied with how Sam’s scrutiny had made certain parts of him perk up in interest, and how this was _not_ the time for them to decide to join the party, because Sam didn’t need to be dealing with his older brother’s inappropriate and unrequited lust—read: incestuous love—on top of the mistrust he already clearly felt for Dean. “Yeah, I’ll go get him,” he said, not looking at Sam; his chest already painfully tight. “Where’s he at?” Sam rattled off an address, and Dean thought for a second. “Yeah, I know where that is.” There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Dean said, “Well, I’ll go get him now, then. You take care of yourself. Don’t forget to eat.”

He didn’t miss Sam’s flinch when Dean’s arm accidentally brushed Sam’s as he sidled past Sam on his way out the door, and Dean forced himself to ignore the flare of stabbing pain aimed at his heart.

 

The bad thing about going on Angel Pick-Up solo is that even Dean’s music can’t distract him from thoughts of Sammy. This feels much, much too close to the times where Dean would just drive aimlessly while Sam was in Stanford, where he had too much time on his hands and not enough to occupy his mind.

Dean’s not sure when he crossed the line from “I love Sammy” to “I’m in love with Sammy.” It might have been around the time Sam finally hit his growth spurt—around age sixteen—when he could finally beat Dean in their regular sparring matches, and Dean’s blood had starting singing with an entirely different reason whenever Sam managed to pin him. He closed his eyes against the wave of pain that lapped over him. He’d always thought, suspected, that one main reason Sam had wanted to get away—one reason why the two of them had gotten so distant in that last year before Sammy finally left—was because he’d found out that his big brother was in love with him, and got hard every time they wrestled.

He hadn’t wanted to go find Sam in Stanford—wanted Sam to stay as far away from him and as close to his long-desired “normal life” as possible—when Dad had gone missing, but he hadn’t known anyone else that he could have called on. That fight in Sam’s kitchen had been enough to bring all the memories and feelings Dean had been fighting to suppress roaring back to the surface, only to be crushed under the heel of the realization that Sam had moved on much further than Dean had expected—that he was happy with another person, with Jess.

Dean spent the whole ride to where Cas was waiting thinking of Sam, wondering if maybe there was something he could do to fix this, to finally, _finally_ , earn back Sam’s trust, the trust he’d lost before Sammy had left for college.

Castiel had to know that something was up, if the speculative look on his face as he climbed into the Impala was any clue.

Sure enough, they had barely been on the road for fifteen minutes before Cas piped up. “Where is Sam?” he asked, looking at Dean.

Dean was sorely tempted to slam his head into the steering wheel. He really, _really_ , didn’t want to think about Sam right now. “Back at the bat cave,” he ground out.

He could feel Castiel’s assessing gaze on him before Cas ventured, “I thought he would pick me up.”

“Well, he’s busy,” Dean almost snarled, his hands tightening on the wheel as he stared resolutely ahead.

“Have you two… fought?”

“No,” Dean said shortly, shooting Castiel a glare that warned him to drop the subject before it got out of hand.

“Then why are you so tense, and why is he not with you?” The grounded angel sounded confused.

“Because he doesn’t trust me, and why should he, when I’m in love with the moron, though God only knows why!” Dean exploded. The words hung thick and heavy in the air before Dean realized what he said. Before he could attempt to explain, however, Castiel shocked him.

“Does he know?” he asked quietly, his blue eyes intent on Dean. Dean glanced over but couldn’t make himself meet Cas’s eyes for more than a second before he looked away, shaking his head slightly. Silence reigned inside the car for so long that Dean thought that Castiel had passed out on him—the guy hadn’t looked too hot to begin with—until Castiel asked, “Do you know he’s in love with you?”, his voice just as quiet as before.

Dean’s mind froze, his body automatically steering the Impala around several turns before he could figure out how to work his mouth again. “I—You—He—What do you mean? He’s not in love with me; if anything, he hates me, after I made him give up the trials.”

Castiel shook his head firmly. “He loves you more than a brother should,” he insisted, his voice calm and containing not a single trace of the disgust Dean expected from an angel of the Lord while discussing _incest_ for pity’s sake. “I fail to see the problem.”

Dean laughed derisively. “The _problem_ ,” he sneered, “is that we’re _brothers_ , Cas, or had you forgotten that?”

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice was still calm, and slowly brought Dean’s rising panic under control. “You two love each other. How can that be wrong?”

“It’s wrong because I’ve fucked it up, Cas. I fucked _him_ up. I made him think that I didn’t trust him, that he had to go through all of these trials just to make me proud of him, and then at the last second I made him stop, and now he hates me for it.” Dean couldn’t squeeze his eyes shut, not while he was driving, but he sure as hell wanted to, wanted to try to block out the memory of Sam’s face—

“He does not hate you for it,” Cas said, his voice still calm and level. “I know him, Dean. He does not hate you.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Dean muttered, and then refused to talk again for the rest of the ride back to the bat cave.

***

Sam stared at Cas, aghast, as the angel— _fallen_ angel—recounted what had happened in Heaven, what all of those falling lights had been: falling angels as they were cast out of Heaven. Dean was in no better shape than he, Sam could see. His heart twisted yet again as he remembered the unreadable look Dean had given him as the hunter and angel had entered the bunker.

“So what do we do?” he asked finally, once Cas was done.

“There is nothing that we can do, for now at least. Metatron has Heaven to himself—“

“No, he doesn’t. He couldn’t cast out all of the souls from Heaven, could he?” Dean interrupted, suddenly intent, and Sam’s heart felt squeezed once more as it pointed out, _Hey, see how gorgeous and totally unattainable he looks when he gets like this?_

“No. They have earned their place in Heaven; they _are_ Heaven.” The angel looked confused, as if unsure where Dean was going with this.

“Then Metatron’s got one hell of a fight on his hands, once those souls realize what’s happened. Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Ash, Rufus, every other hunter that’s up there, they won’t stand for Metatron fucking with Heaven like that.”

Sam perked up, just a little bit, at the thought of everyone teaming up. “They could totally kick Metatron’s ass,” he agreed. “You said he can’t toss them out of Heaven, and it’s not as if they could die again,” Sam pointed out.

Castiel was silent for another few moments, but it was the silence of one thinking some things through, and then the former angel slowly nodded. “Yes. It would be difficult, for Metatron is extremely old and powerful, not to mention knowledgeable, but perhaps they will succeed.”

“Then all we can do is leave it up to them,” Dean said decisively. “Now, I’m starved; who wants pie?”

Sam chuckled weakly while Cas just rolled his eyes—a human habit he had picked up a little while back, though he rarely employed it—and groaned.

 

That night, Cas was sleeping in his room and Sam was in the library, trying to see if the Men of Letters had anything on Heaven that he had never read before when he felt more than saw or heard Dean enter the room. He was aware that he immediately tensed up, but he couldn’t help it; Dean still set him on edge, because he was still afraid of letting on to Dean that he was in love with his brother—and wouldn’t that just go over great?

_Hey, Dean._

_Yeah, Sammy?_

_Got something to tell you._

_Yeah, what?_

_I’m in love with you and have been since I was seventeen._

_Great! Wanna go fuck?_

Yeah. Like that would happen.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean’s voice was tentative and so completely unlike his usual voice that Sam turned around. He knew it was a mistake the moment he saw the look on Dean’s face: timid, scared, almost, but determined.

Sam forced himself to swallow and give Dean a reassuring smile, but he was pretty sure it came out closer to a grimace. “Hey, Dean.”

He heard Dean pull in a breath, had to keep his eyes from focusing on the way Dean’s chest expanded, stretching his shirt just a bit. He wasn’t entirely sure that he succeeded, if the look in Dean’s eyes was anything to go by.

***

As Dean pulled in a big breath, bracing himself for what he had to say next, he found himself losing his train of thought as a flare of heat shot up behind Sam’s eyes. Dean suddenly wondered how many similar flares he’d missed because he hadn’t been looking for them. But he was now, and there it was: A flash of heat, of _desire_ , igniting an answering surge in Dean, and now words didn’t seem so important as he stepped closer to Sam, kept moving when Sam didn’t move, until there was barely more than a few inches separating them.

“Dean?” Sam asked, his gaze uncertain, questioning, and Dean suddenly found himself a bit desperate to shut Sam up before he could question—and therefore make Dean question—what Dean was doing.

“Don’t talk,” he whispered, right before he reached up, grabbed two handfuls of Sam’s hair, and crushed their mouths together.

He felt Sam still beneath him, and his heart pounded even faster as he kissed Sam harder, willing him to respond the way that he knew Sam wanted to, the way he wanted Sam to respond. After a moment Sam hesitantly kissed him back, and Dean gentled the kiss, turning it from one kiss to smaller ones, punctuated by soft breaths. A gentle nip on Sam’s lower lip had his mouth opening on a gasp, and Dean took advantage of it, licking into Sam’s mouth with a small hum. Sam tasted better than he’d thought; he could taste a little bit of whiskey, suggesting that Sam had had a drink while Dean was setting up Cas, and Dean chased after it with his tongue, kissing Sam thoroughly.

Sam was the one who finally pulled back, gasping out, “Dean—“ before Dean was kissing him again, determined to make him just _feel,_ to quit _thinking_.

Dean felt Sam’s hands drop to his waist, and Dean gently nudged forward, backing Sam up against the wall before letting his own hands slip down to unbutton Sam’s shirt and push under the material, every last particle of Dean sighing in pleasure and relief as he finally touched Sam in a way that he hadn’t ever, the way he’d wanted to for a long time, before Stanford.

He felt Sam’s groan rumble up through his chest before he heard it, and then Sam’s hands were on him, and suddenly they were tearing at each other’s shirts, trying to get them off until finally they were both standing there shirtless, and there seemed to be miles and miles of skin for Dean to explore with his hands and his mouth, and he set to it eagerly.

He heard Sam’s head thunk back against the wall as his little brother gasped out, “Dean, _God_ —“

“Nope, just Dean,” Dean chuckled before letting his hand roam down to toy with the button of Sam’s jeans before popping it open and slipping his hand inside. Sam was hard, almost amazingly so, and Dean kept his mouth busy with moving over Sam’s chest, finally latching onto one nipple as he took Sam firmly in hand and began stroking his cock, his thumb rubbing over the head with each upstroke. Dean felt his own cock twitch at the groan that Sam let out before Sam’s hands were scrabbling at Dean’s jeans, then suddenly one of Sam’s huge paws was wrapped around Dean’s cock and he couldn’t hold back the gasp as his hips bucked forward and he sped up his strokes on Sam’s dick, wanting Sam to come before he did.

“Oh, God, Dean, yes, please, more—“ Sam begged so prettily and Dean wanted to take his time, but they were approaching the precipice, and then Sam was hurtling over it, coming all over Dean’s hand and the sensation of the warmth flooding over his skin and the knowledge that _he_ had brought Sam to that point was sending him into his own leap, the heat that had been spiraling in his stomach releasing, a long, low groan making its way up from his throat as his forehead rested on Sam’s shoulder before he slowly took his hand from Sam’s jeans, dimly aware of Sam copying the movement. His whole body thrummed with contentment, and he wished, vaguely, that they had managed to make it to a bed, so they could just go to sleep now.

***

Sam felt more relaxed than he’d been in—ages, really. He was pretty sure that he’d just come harder than he had in longer than he could remember, and he vaguely thought that there was something wrong with this situation, but his partner was leaning against him, and they had their arms wrapped around each other, and Sam vaguely wished that it was Dean he was holding as he brought one hand up to stroke through—

Extremely short hair.

Sam stilled and then slowly forced himself to open his eyes and look down. He would recognize that freckled, scarred back anywhere, anytime. A strangled sound made its way up from his lungs, and he slid to the side, hastily doing up his jeans. Oh God. Oh no. No, no, no. No, this couldn’t—it couldn’t have—Dean—

Sam barely looked up in time to see Dean hiding the absolutely _wrecked_ expression he’d been sporting, and Sam felt his heart and gut clench and twist in guilt. He’d let Dean touch him—no, that wasn’t even the worst part; the worst part was that _he_ had touched Dean in a way that was totally inappropriate, given that they were _brothers_ , for Chrissake, and there was no way that Dean felt the same as Sam did.

“Oh, God, Dean, I’m so sorry,” he managed to choke out, and if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own guilt, he might have seen the flash of anger, maybe despair, that flickered across Dean’s face before his usual blank mask settled back into place.

“It’s fine, Sammy,” he said, smiling, but that wasn’t _Dean’s_ smile, it was some stranger’s smile on his brother’s face, and Sam couldn’t help the little sob that wrenched its way out of his throat before he could get a hold of it.

“No, it’s not. I—You—“ He couldn’t take the mask on Dean’s face anymore, couldn’t stand here, knowing that Dean had done that just to… to what? Comfort Sam? Sam shook his head and fled the library, heading for his room and shutting the door behind him, locking it and then bracing himself against the door before slowly sliding to the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees and pressing his forehead to them, struggling to hold back the sobs. Dean had to hate him now, there was no way he couldn’t know how Sam felt, not after—

Not after sending Sam into one of the best orgasms of his life, after touching him in a way that no one had ever been able to, because Dean could reach that little spot of Sam’s heart that only he had the key to.

Not after Sam had let him, and had jacked Dean into his own orgasm. Sam wondered who Dean had thought of while Sam had been touching him—had it been Lisa? Cassie? Any of the other hundreds of girls that Dean had fucked before? Sam choked back his sobs, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, fighting to keep the tears from leaking free.

He knew Dean loved him, but Dean was still the protective older brother.

He’d never fall for Sam.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean watched Sam go, shock and hurt rooting him to the spot. The way Sam had leapt from him, like he’d forgotten that it was Dean who’d brought him to that orgasm, that he hadn’t wanted Dean—

Oh Jesus, no.

Dean stumbled to the nearest chair and sank into it, absently remembering to straighten out his jeans and tuck himself back in as the thoughts crashed, heavy and tainted—no, not tainted, _soaked_ —in guilt. What if Sam really hadn’t wanted Dean to touch him like that? Cas had said—

But Cas had been wrong before.

The thought made Dean’s blood run cold. If Sam hadn’t wanted him to do that, hadn’t wanted Dean like that, then he had just…

He had just raped his little brother.

It felt like the world itself stopped. Dean had raped Sam. Didn’t matter if there was no penetration; that wasn’t what defined rape. Rape was touching a person against their will, without their consent. If he’d stopped with just the kiss, he could have played it off as a joke, said he’d only done it to shut Sam up, but no, he’d gotten swept up in it, had dragged Sam along with him, and—

And now Sam wouldn’t have to worry about getting Dean’s trust back.

Now Dean had to worry about getting Sam’s back, about moving on past this.

 

The next morning, Sam wouldn’t look him in the eye, and Dean relished the pain in his chest, knowing he deserved it for what he’d done the night before in the library. He’d only meant to talk, to see if Cas was right, and he’d taken things so far from that that it wasn’t even comprehensible how far off track he’d gotten. He deserved the pain, deserved Sam avoiding him, flinching away from him—if Sam ever let him get close enough to flinch away from. He deserved it all. There was no excuse for what he’d done.

***

Sam avoided Dean the morning after the incident in the library, not wanting to see the disgust and possibly loathing that he knew he’d find in Dean’s eyes. Instead he devoted himself to going back to researching, trying to forget how amazing it had felt when Dean had touched him, had—

And he really needed to stop thinking about it. Dean hadn’t enjoyed it, there was no way he could have enjoyed it, not when they were _brothers_ and Dean was only doing it because of his need to constantly worry about and try to take care of Sammy.

Sam felt a surge of anger flood over him, and he gritted his teeth. Dammit, if— _that_ —was how Dean was going to “take care of him,” then he wanted nothing to do with Dean’s comfort. Letting out a slow breath, Sam pried his fingers from the book he’d been holding. It wouldn’t do any good to take his anger out on the books.

In a flash, Sam’s on his feet, shoving his chair back hard enough to knock it over, the back of it barely hitting the floor by the time Sam’s out of the library. He’d seen Dean heading for the shooting range, and maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to have this conversation while Dean had a weapon in his hand, but Sam was not going to let Dean think that Sam wanted his comfort _that_ badly.

He stormed down the hall, startling Castiel, who quickly withdrew back into the dining room. Sam made his way past the bedrooms and downstairs to the shooting range, where he could hear Dean wasting bullets against a bloodless target. Sam’s upper lip curled. He was about to have a target of his own, and he damn well might bloody it up a bit.

Or a lot.

***

Dean fired at the target several times in a row, emptying the entire clip into the sheet of paper, wishing that it was something he could get up close and personal with, something he could—

“ _Oomph!_ ”

Suddenly Dean wasn’t standing in front of the table anymore, and he was pretty sure the gun hung in the air for a second as he was yanked back and slammed up against a wall. His first instinct was to fight, but when he recognized the snarl, he stilled, eyes wide, as he looked up at Sam.

Except…

Except it wasn’t really Sam he was looking at.

He’d seen Sam angry before, but never like this. This was almost homicidal rage, and Dean’s gut twisted. He’d brought Sam to this point.

“You. Fucking. _Bastard_ ,” Sam snarled, his face inches from Dean’s own. “The hell was that last night? You kissing me, jacking me off? Huh? What were you _thinking_ , Dean? Thinking I needed comfort? That I needed your help?”

“Sam—“ Dean tried to start, but he didn’t know what he was going to say. It didn’t matter, anyway; Sam was obviously planning on doing the talking here.

“I don’t need it, Dean! I don’t need your help, your—your _pity_. Who were you thinking of, when I was touching _you_? Lisa? Cassie? I don’t want you to touch me like that _ever_ again, Dean. Not if you’re going to be thinking that I’m one of the other hundreds—hell, _thousands_ —of people you’ve fucked before.” Sam slammed him against the wall one last time before releasing him and stepping back, breathing heavily and glaring at Dean. Dean could see the hurt behind Sam’s anger, and he felt like the lowest of the low, knowing he’d done that; he’d hurt Sammy.

“Sammy—“ When Sam flinched at the nickname, Dean amended quickly, “Sam. I didn’t… Didn’t do it just to comfort you. I…” He swallowed, turning his head to the side. “I wasn’t thinking of anyone else,” he whispered. Sam let out a strangled sound, but Dean couldn’t make himself look up as he continued, “I wanted it. Wanted _you_. I just… I didn’t…” His eyes squeezed shut, and he forced them open to look up at Sam. He saw a devastated look flash over Sam’s face, and he couldn’t stay there. It was his turn to flee this time, as he shoved past Sam, making his way through the bunker—almost plowing over Castiel on his way—and exiting, heading for the Impala and throwing himself behind the wheel, turning her on and then peeling away before he could stop to think.

He’d always been able to lose himself in driving, and this time he hoped to lose the memory of Sam’s expression as he’d left the shooting range.

***

Sam watched Dean go, unable to do anything to try to stop him as his mind still reeled from the revelation that Dean had dropped on him. He… He hadn’t been thinking of any other girls? He’d wanted _Sam_ , done that because he wanted it, not to comfort Sam?

 _Oh, dear God,_ Sam thought despairingly. He’d just… He was pretty sure that he’d just ruined everything. The look on Dean’s face—When he came back from wherever he’d driven off to, Dean was going to pretend none of this ever happened. And if Sam tried to bring it up again, then he would either ignore the issue or run, again.

Well. Sam’s plan to confront Dean?

He definitely should have worked on it before now.

A small smile twitched over his lips briefly. He’d just have to adjust his approach; now that he knew Dean wanted him, he was going to stop at nothing to get Dean to say it again, and to stick around long enough for Sam to tell Dean his own secret.

***

Dean grinned at Cas as he came back in. “Hey, Cas,” he greeted, glancing around the bat cave. “Sammy—Sam around?”

Cas eyed Dean warily. “Sam is… in the kitchen,” he said slowly. “He said something about wanting to… try something out, I believe.”

Dean returned Cas’s wary look before making his way into the kitchen in time to hear a muffled clang, followed by a “God _fucking_ dammit!” Raising an eyebrow, Dean entered the kitchen and then stopped.

The kitchen was, quite literally, _coated_ with… Dean thought it might be flour. Mixed with sugar. Standing over by the counter was Sam, flour in his hair and all over his face and clothes, and Dean had to choke back laughter as it became apparent that Sam was trying to bake something. He leaned against the doorframe, not saying anything, just smiling slightly. It quickly became obvious that Sam was trying to bake a pie, and Dean couldn’t stop his grin from growing a bit wider.

“Well. Someone’s been having fun,” he commented finally, after Sam’s put the pie in the oven and set the timer. Sam jumped badly enough that he knocked his elbow against the counter and swore, then eyed Dean with an offended glare when Dean chuckled.

“Yeah, yeah. Figured maybe I should learn to cook some stuff myself,” he muttered, glancing around the kitchen. “Didn’t quite… work out.”

“I can see that,” Dean observed, stepping carefully into the kitchen and heading for the cabinet that housed the cleaning supplies. “Can’t use a mop with this; it’ll just get all sticky,” he explained as he pulled out some towels and a broom and dustpan.

Sam just chuckled. “Well, I’m going to need a shower,” he said, shooting Dean a glance that looked a bit worried.

Dean forced a smile to his face. “Yes, you are,” he agreed, and tried to let the image of Sam, naked and wet, not go through his mind too slowly. “So. Most people learn to cook mac n’ cheese. Why’d you pick pie?”

Sam shifted his grip on the broom in his hands uncomfortably. “Cause it’s your favorite,” he mumbled, sounding a little embarrassed.

Dean smiled at that, a genuine smile, and he couldn’t suppress the warmth fluttering through his chest. He didn’t say anything, just helped Sam clean up.

The pie was the best he’d had, simply because Sam had made it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter is basically all smut.

So the pie hadn’t been the greatest idea Sam had ever had. But over the next several days, he kept doing things, small things that he knew Dean would appreciate, and he could see Dean looking at him assessingly sometimes, but he pretended not to see that.

They were in the library almost two weeks after the incident that had started all of this, Sam looking at a book, Dean flipping through a magazine, nursing a beer. About two hours after they’d first sat down, Sam glanced up and caught Dean looking at him, his eyes smoldering slightly, though it moved from his eyes to his cheeks when Dean realized that Sam had caught him, and he quickly looked back down at his magazine.

Sam debated for a moment, and then slowly closed his book and stood up, moving like he was just leaving the room, but he stopped behind Dean, the tips of his fingers dragging lightly across the back of Dean’s neck. He felt Dean tense and suck in a harsh breath, and it gave Sam the courage to move his hand around so that he was cupping Dean’s jaw from behind, tilting Dean’s head back as Sam bent over. “Dean,” he murmured, searching Dean’s gaze a little anxiously—it was one thing for Dean to blurt out that he wanted Sam, another for him to let Sam do this.

Sam felt Dean’s throat work under his hand, and then Dean was whispering, “Yeah, Sam—Sam?”

Sam leaned down until his lips were close enough to feel the heat from Dean’s slightly panting breaths, and then he murmured, “I need to talk to you.” Then he straightened and walked out of the library, heading for the map room. He heard Dean hesitate, but when he glanced over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, Dean followed.

***

Dean didn’t know what all… all _that_ had been about, but Sam had said that he needed to talk, so Dean followed him. When they entered the map room, Sam turned and cocked one hip against it, leaning on the table, arms crossed, while he studied Dean. Dean moved a little closer, then stopped, shoving his hands into his pockets. The silence between them began to stretch uncomfortably long, and finally Dean couldn’t stand it anymore. “You said you wanted to talk?” he prompted, looking everywhere but at Sam.

“Yeah, I did.” Sam didn’t say anything else for a long time, and Dean resisted the urge to break the silence again, partly because he didn’t know what he could say. Sam eventually spoke again. “What happened a couple of weeks ago… I’m not mad at you for it, Dean. Not now that I know.”

Dean didn’t have to ask what he meant. “Okay,” he said, his gaze flickering up to Sam and then back down to where he was idly kicking at the floor, scuffing the heel of his boot against the tile.

“That’s not… exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, though.” Sam waited until Dean looked up at him, and then he continued, “What I wanted to talk to you about was the fact that I… I feel the same. Have for a while.” Now it was Sam’s turn to look uneasy, as if he was afraid that Dean would laugh at him.

Dean couldn’t even imagine doing that, however, not with his jaw currently dropping and clattering around on the floor. It took him a moment to reconnect it so he could swallow and ask, “You… You have?” This conversation was almost like every single romantic-movie-cliché, except that in romantic movies it wasn’t two brothers confessing that they wanted each other.

Sam chuckled in a way that said that he knew exactly what Dean was thinking. “I have,” he confirmed. “I know it’s messed up, but… Well, it’s the truth. I want you, and I have since I was seventeen. I just always assumed that…” His voice trailed off, and Dean suddenly had control over his limbs again, because he moved forward and gently nudged his way in between Sam’s thighs, his hands coming to rest lightly on Sam’s hips as he licked his lips and looked at Sam tentatively.

“I’ve wanted… For a long time,” he whispered, smiling slightly as Sam’s hands rested on his own hips.

“How long?” Sam murmured, his thumb working its way under the material of Dean’s shirt and slowly stroking the skin as Sam watched Dean swallow before answering.

“You were… sixteen,” he breathed, swaying forward slightly.

***

That long? Sam raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Well. That’s longer than I thought.” He used his hands on Dean’s hips to tug Dean closer and he carefully leaned down, brushing his lips over Dean’s cheek before moving to whisper into his ear, “I think we’ve taken enough time, don’t you?”

He smiled when he felt Dean give a full-body shudder. He pulled back and gently skimmed his hands up and over Dean’s chest to frame his face. “I want this, Dean,” he said, making sure that Dean knew he wasn’t going to regret this, or run.

“I want this, too.” Dean honest-to-God whimpered the words, and Sam closed the distance between them with a groan, sealing his lips over Dean’s and kissing him hard, using his hands to tilt Dean’s face as he licked over the seam of Dean’s lips.

Dean gasped beneath his mouth, and Sam took advantage of it, licking into Dean’s mouth eagerly, savoring the taste of Dean. It was indescribable. He plundered, taking what Dean willingly offered, and when he realized that Dean was hard and was making a small, continuous mewling noise, his hands fluttering up and down Sam’s ribs, Sam pulled away just long enough to turn them so that he could sit Dean down on the table, his hands pushing up and under Dean’s shirt, tugging it off of the older Winchester.

“Sammy—“ Dean groaned, and Sam kissed him.

“Shut up,” he murmured, his hands moving up Dean’s now-bare chest to tweak at one nipple, his mouth moving down to latch onto the junction of Dean’s neck, biting down almost hard enough to break the skin, certainly hard enough to bruise. Dean made a strangled sound as Sam bit him, his hips stuttering up against Sam. Sam chuckled and tenderly lapped at the bite, soothing it as he let his hands move down to work at Dean’s jeans, opening them. Sam stepped back just enough to pull the jeans and Dean’s boxer-briefs down at the same time before he stepped back in, kissing Dean as he let his hand move down to take Dean’s cock in his hand, stroking gently.

Of course, Dean couldn’t stay quiet for long. “Ngh, Sammy, please—“

“Dean, be quiet,” Sam chuckled, moving from Dean’s mouth to move down his chest until Sam was bent over and licking the head of Dean’s cock, lapping up the precome already starting to leak from the tip. He hummed in satisfaction at the taste—slightly bitter, but salty yet sweet—and moved back in, wrapping his lips over the head and sucking lightly. Dean gasped above him, one hand moving to wrap itself in Sam’s hair as Sam moved his own hands up, one cupping Dean’s balls, the other encircling Dean’s cock, jacking what Sam didn’t have in his mouth. He spent some time just suckling the head, enjoying Dean’s moans. When Dean started making needy, desperate noises, Sam moved down, craning his neck to take as much of Dean’s length in his mouth as he could.

It had been years since the last time Sam was with a guy—in college, before he’d met Jess—but apparently it was a little like riding a bicycle, and a little like just imitating what had always made him feel the best, if the sounds falling from Dean’s lips were any indication.

Dean was seconds away from coming when Sam pulled off. Dean keened, his hands pushing and plucking ineffectively at Sam’s shoulders. Sam chuckled as he worked his way back up Dean’s chest, nipping and licking every time his mouth touched skin. Finally he was back to Dean’s mouth, and he claimed it in a kiss before murmuring, “Wanna be in you.”

***

Dean was pretty sure that Sam was going to kill him.

First the whole emotional turmoil over him thinking he’d raped his brother, then Sam unwittingly tricking Dean into confessing that he wanted Sam, then the whole pie thing, and everything else Sam had been doing over the past two weeks, and now this.

When Sam said that he wanted to be in Dean—wanted to be the one fucking Dean—he couldn’t stop the gasp. He pulled back to look at Sam, who looked pretty damn fuckable himself, with his lust-blown pupils and his hair tousled from Dean’s grip. “Why do you get to top?” he managed to get out, barely stopping himself from lunging forward and kissing Sam and letting him do whatever the hell he wanted to Dean.

Sam just chuckled, running his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip. “Because I started this. And I’ve wanted to for… as long as I can remember wanting you.”

Dean groaned. Apparently they were just made for each other; every time Dean had fantasized about Sam, it had always been the thought of Sam fucking him that had sent Dean over the edge. “God, yes, Sammy, please,” he managed to say, rocking his hips up, searching for friction. He decided that Sam was still wearing entirely too many clothes, and started unbuttoning Sam’s shirt, pulling it off of him with a muttered, “Off.”

Sam just chuckled and complied, easily stripping off the shirt that Dean was having so much trouble with before removing his jeans and underwear as well. Then he was back, his naked skin against Dean’s burning hot skin, sliding and creating delicious friction. He groaned appreciatively at the sensation, then a niggling worry started bugging him. It took him a moment to track it down, then he looked up at Sam, his brow furrowed. “Lube?” he asked.

Sam considered the question for a moment, then pulled away from Dean long enough to bend down and rummage in his jeans, pulling out a little bottle of lotion that he had. Dean eyed it before nodding. “Good as anything,” he conceded.

Sam chuckled and popped it open, dropping a generous dollop onto his hand and fingers before kissing Dean again, his fingers moving down to tease over Dean’s puckered hole, slicking up the outside before Sam finally pushed one in. Dean’s back arched and he gasped at the feeling, his hands dropping from Sam to brace himself on the table, tilting his hips and making it easier for Sam to work the digit in deeper until he whined softly and wiggled his hips in a silent invitation for more.

Sam complied, slowly pushing a second finger in and repeating the process, scissoring them and crooking them until Dean’s hips almost shot off of the table as Sam found his prostate, brushing over it repeatedly and sending warmth and pleasure flooding through Dean until he was keening and moaning, panting and begging for Sam to give him more, please, anything, he just wanted— _needed_ —more—

Sam did the opposite, pulling his fingers from Dean, who protested loudly until Sam clapped a hand over his mouth, leaning in close to hiss, “Shut up, Dean, unless you want Cas to hear us?”

Dean never figured himself for an exhibitionist, but the way that thought sent excited shivers down his spine, he reckoned that was one kink that had managed to keep itself hidden. He still shook his head, though both he and Sam knew that if Cas did walk in on them, they weren’t going to stop.

Basically ever coherent thought fled when Dean felt the tip of Sam’s cock nudging at his hole. He laid back on the table, spreading his legs wider to give Sam better access as he slowly pushed inside of Dean. Dean felt full, stretched to his absolute limit, and he’d never felt better in his life.

Finally, Sam bottomed out, all of him sheathed inside of Dean, and Dean carefully lifted his legs, wrapping them around Sam’s waist as they both waited for Dean to completely adjust to Sam’s girth.

“Move,” he prompted after a moment, reaching up to run the backs of his knuckles down Sam’s cheek. Sam turned to nuzzle his hand, and then his hips pulled back before slowly pushing back into Dean, setting up a rhythm that was slow and designed to either drive Dean crazy or get him used to Sam’s motion. Maybe both.

Either way, it was fucking amazing, and Dean couldn’t help rocking into it until finally he felt like he was used to the burn, and he reached up to run his hand down Sam’s arms, enjoying the feel of the bunched muscles. “I can take more, Sam,” he reassured his brother, smiling.

Sam groaned and leaned down to press a quick kiss to Dean’s lips, and then Dean threw his head back hard enough to leave a dent—in the table or his head, he didn’t particularly care which right now—as Sam pulled back and then snapped his hips forward, driving into Dean hard enough to slide him up an inch on the tabletop. Then Sam’s hands were clutching his hips, holding him in place while Sam fucked into him, the obscene sound of skin slapping together enough to have Dean spiraling ever closer to the edge.

“Oh God, Sammy, please—ngh, Jesus Christ, so close,” he groaned-slash-panted, and Sam just chuckled, the evil little fucker, before he shifted again, so now he was hitting Dean’s prostate with every thrust.

“What do you want, Dean?” he asked, leaning back and slowing his pace as he looked down at Dean. “Want me to keep fucking you? Touch you?”

“Both! Jesus Christ, Sammy, please, for the love of all that’s holy, just fucking _touch me already!_ ” Dean screamed, feeling like he was going to explode if he didn’t get Sam’s hands on him at the least. Sam just laughed again—Dean made a mental note to kick his ass later—before resuming the punishing pace of before as he reached down and wrapped his hand around Dean’s cock, his fist pumping firmly.

It only took a few strokes and then Dean was coming over himself and Sam’s hand, crying out Sam’s name on a strangled breath. A few thrusts later, and he felt Sam come inside him, and he slowly exhaled, his legs still locked around Sam’s waist.

***

Sam’s head had dropped down to rest on Dean’s shoulder, and he let out a self-satisfied hum as he idly kissed and sucked at the skin under his mouth. After a few moments, he slowly pulled out of Dean, straightening up enough to run his fingers down Dean’s cheek before kissing him slowly, thoroughly, like it was his personal mission to memorize Dean’s taste, to be able to recognize Dean from any one else.

After a few moments he helped Dean sit carefully up, and he had to repress a chuckle at the wince Dean gave when his weight was resting on his ass again. Dean scowled at Sam, but then his eyes flicked over Sam’s shoulder and froze. Sam looked over his shoulder, and then yelped, moving to cover Dean with as much of his considerable bulk as possible.

“Fucking hell, Cas! How long have you been there?” Sam shouted, flushing from embarrassment.

“I heard—“ Cas’s words choked in his throat, and he shook his head frantically. “I will leave now,” he announced. “I need to find my other brethren.”

Sam saw the mischievous look on Dean’s face a split second before Dean called after the retreating angel, “What? Going to go fuck them, now that you’ve seen us?” He laughed when Cas froze, then hurried on out of sight, and Sam barely managed to hold in his laughter until Cas was gone.

“Jesus, Dean, you’re such a jerk, you know that?” he grinned, ruffling Dean’s hair playfully.

“Bitch,” Dean responded automatically, but he was grinning as well. Then he sobered suddenly. “I love you, you know that?”

Sam smiled and leaned forward to kiss Dean. “Yeah, I know,” he murmured. “Now, how about we actually make it to a bed this time, for round two?”

Dean’s grin was all the answer he needed.


End file.
